limbs
by heartumbles
Summary: They want to treat him like a monster, so he acts like one.


The chains bite into his skin, cool steel binding his wrists and ankles tightly to the table, steel that seems to coil tighter with each movement he makes. The chains strain and whine in protest, but in spite of his thrashing they don't give.

"Hold him still."

_No…_

His mind is stumbling, tripping over itself. The muffled sounds around him are overwhelming, the smells even more so. A strong clinical scent that he recognizes from his younger years, from his father's work, but it's mixed with sweat and something murky lingering in the air. Like the air was rusting.

Metal scrapes metal from behind, tools being shuffled around. Running water. Glass bottles opening. Boots scuffing the floor as two men move around the room. Their footsteps wander all around, ringing loudly in his ears.

They stop at the table.

"This should be enough?"

"A little more. We can't risk him transforming."

Two voices. The first one is almost nasally, detached and mechanical. The one that he struggles most to remember in his haze. The second is more familiar, deep, less grating on the ears and less uncaring in tone. But still cold.

Then he feels the needle.

The pain in his neck is sudden and sharp, but it only lasts a moment before his body starts to numb. It's a dragging feeling, a weight being spread over his skin, his joints, his bones. He can feel dry hands, the same ones that stuck him, checking his neck for a pulse.

"Breathing's stable."

"Good."

_No._

He can't see them, not with a thick cloth covering his eyes. Couldn't speak, either, with his mouth gagged. All this just to limit his noise and his questions. He feels himself slipping again with the drug running through his system. It would end in another round of drifting in and out of consciousness just to be greeted by another staggering dose. Like fog blanketing the world, suffocating his senses. The same old routine.

His mind starts reeling.

"…another sample. The right hand this time."

"I know."

Not numb enough. He's not nearly numb enough, not for this pain. That's the problem, he thinks; anesthetics just aren't enough. He's never out for long. They bring the blade to his hand all the same.

_NO!_

The butcher knife again. He recognizes the way the long edge works under his skin, how it glides in so easily. Last time they peeled his hands with it. Like a plum, just pulling off strips at a snail's pace. Starting and stopping, watching as the veins and muscles pulsed blood onto the table, vapor rising, before the skin started to grow back. They peeled and watched his body remold itself. Over and over and over and…

Now they want more. Skin heals quickly enough—mere minutes, if he didn't exert himself. But what else? What about fingers? A whole hand?

And it burns.

The blade burns, his skin burns, and he screams against the cloth stuffed down his throat, screams yet again to no avail. It burns and the man keeps cutting through his wrist, _sawing through it_, and he ignores the muffled sounds of agony.

No, not numb enough. And they don't care.

"Already?"

"Just like a Titan… It heals so fast."

Heal isn't quite the right word. No, it's like mush sprouting from the fibers of his being, morphing into a makeshift replacement. He feels every moment of it. There's blood, but it's minimal. The stump is slick for mere seconds before gelling over. And still it burns, an open wound brought to a flame. It hurts more than the hand's removal.

"Not all of it is back yet," the first voice says. Too pleased. "Fascinating."

"Set this aside with the others."

It's carried off to be put away with the other samples. Hair, strips of skin, teeth pulled in spite of his spitting and biting, vials of his blood, fingers… Still, they want more. They always want more.

"It's okay, Eren."

The second voice. The words are meant to be soothing, but they just send a chill down his spine. The hands are on him again, fingers running across the half stump of his wrist. And he flinches at the touch, moans, the chains jingling.

"We just need to observe more, run more tests. Then it'll all be over."

But he can call a bluff when he hears one.

* * *

_"Eren Jaeger."_

_He looked up. It was just days after Commander Irvin and Corporal Levi had spoken with him, and already he had another visitor. Had he seen that face before? The man stood outside the dungeon cell, watching Eren intently with steeled grayed eyes, yet never meeting the boy's gaze. He had a long face, short dark hair, and bags under his eyes as if he hadn't gotten a proper night's sleep in ages. His expression was hard as he peered through the bars and eyed Eren's chained wrists. There was a scrutiny there that the boy didn't like._

_He swallowed and shifted in bed. "Sir?"_

_"Chief Nile Dawk."_

_Ah. Chief of the Military Police. It made sense; he was in their custody after all. "R…right."_

_"You'll be coming with me."_

_"Where?"_

_But there was no response. The chief looked to the men standing guard outside the cell door instead, motioned with his hand toward the lock. They opened it without question._

_This couldn't have been right. The tribunal wouldn't be for a while. Commander Irvin had said as much. He'd have to stand before the Generalissimo and wait for official judgment. Preparations had to be made. Things couldn't have been pushed forward so soon, and yet… This wasn't right. Something was wrong._

_He had no choice but to go._

_The two guards were rough when they unshackled him from the wall, when they pushed him out of the cell. He was cuffed from behind and led along the hallway, stumbling over his feet as he attempted to keep up with the chief's pace. The air felt heavy as they walked, and he couldn't bring himself to ask the question that had him worried most:_

What's going to happen to me?

_"You'll have another chance to prove your worth yet." The chief spoke, as if reading Eren's mind, but didn't give him so much as a backwards glance._

_"Sir, I don't understand."_

_"There's no need."_

_The man's voice was off. Tense. Foreboding._

_Before he realized it, there were approaching a great door where a woman stood waiting. She wasn't one of the police. No, she wasn't even dressed as a member of any division. She wore a white robe, gloves stretched taut on her petite hands. And he watched those hands and the item she hid between them. Awkwardly, staring at him with wide eyes as they drew closer._

_The woman walked up to Eren, shooting a glance at Chief Dawk before asking, "Is this safe?"_

_"So long as he's down, it's fine."_

What?

_She moved fast, though, as if afraid the boy would react before she could. She snatched him forward by the shirt collar, sticking the item hidden in her hands into his neck. A syringe._

_He cried out, but the sound came out garbled. He yanked himself away as she pulled the needle out, tried to pull himself free, but all his muscles felt weak and his vision grew blurry._

_"Wha…did you…?"_

_"Sleeping drug," Chief Dawk stated simply. "It'll be easier this way."_

_Easier? He could barely hold himself up straight, falling to his knees. The guards kept him from collapsing face first into the brick floor, each one holding him by the arm. Eren's voice rose, cracked, as a panic started to cut through his drowsiness. "But why?"_

_And then, only then, did the man give him one stiff look in the eyes. "Don't you worry."_

_And the world went black._

* * *

_It'll be over soon. Soon, Eren. Soon._

That's always the promise. How many times has he heard the reassurance by now? How many times has it been followed by more prodding and tearing and cutting and…

He's lost count. Days blend together, or at least it feels like days, in a constant stream of confusion and pain and a bitter sense of betrayal.

_I'm not your enemy._

The thought plays out in his head every time he has a moment of peace. He'll think through the aches and the throbs in his head and the pins and needles sensation in his back as he struggles against the chains. He'll think it with such conviction every time he hears the voices return, hears their talk of what to sever next and how. He'll think until he can't think anymore, and at that point he's subjected to the torture again.

Now they want an arm.

They don't bother with the anesthesia, saying how he'll only be out for a short amount of time. Assuming it'll hinder the experiments.

"How do we know the regeneration rate doesn't decrease with the drug?"

"There's no proof that…"

"Only one way to find out."

One way.

They decide to use the same arm as before. The hand has already grown back, but it isn't their concern now. He cocks his head at the sound of sharpened metal—a heavy scrape from behind—and tries to brace himself when the sound disappears. It's not enough when the blade finally comes down.

It's a cleaner cut than before, done in one go, done without a single word of warning so that it takes him by surprise. He doesn't even have ten seconds to consider the lost weight of his arm before the sting sets in near his shoulder and he's letting out more choked screams.

"Maybe we should have given him something…" The second voice, wavering.

"He'll manage." The first, colder than usual.

And Eren tugs and bangs his other arm on the table as much as the chains allow, rattling them. He tugs and screams, soon out of anger than pain, and he can hear the steam rising from the half bleeding stump as it starts to knit itself closed.

_I'm not your enemy, I'm not your enemy, I'M NOT YOUR FUCKING EMEMY!_

"This is exactly why—"

"Hold him _down!_"

And other things. Other words. But they're garbled up in his angry state, and he seethes, and his sounds of struggle fill the room along with alarmed shouts and rushing footsteps.

_Let me go!_

He thinks it again and again, banging his head against the table until they have to hold that down too. There's something warm and wet running down his neck, and he's dizzy, and there's one more murderous growl in his throat before he's pricked with another needle.

* * *

Just because it grows back doesn't make it hurt any less.

They know that, and still they ignore it. Still, they want more. Fingers, a hand. Toes, feet. Arms. Legs. They want to chop him up like some slab of meat.

"What about two at once?"

"What do you mean?"

"It took him longer with the drugs. Perhaps it'll take him longer with both arms removed as well."

"Twice the amount of effort exerted at once, huh?"

_No more…_

He can't take it. He can't take this. Surely they realize that? They have to…

"He's moving."

"It's fine, he can't do much at the moment."

There are a new set of voices now. A new set of people to go along with his new prison: a man and a woman, and the occasional lab assistant when he mouths off too much, when he seems like a threat. He's been moved after the last incident, no longer drugged, no longer blindfolded, no longer gagged.

A basement-like room, much smaller than the other one from what he's heard, with nothing but a barred door cut into the wall. The walls here are thick concrete with jagged edges sticking out towards him as if in warning. Dim lanterns, are set atop the counters. Those, along with trays of tools used on him on a daily basis. And body parts, both stuffed in jars beside these trays and lining the walls, floating in colored liquid or strung up by hooks and chains, limp and close to festering.

His body parts.

He only knows this because they had made it a point to show it all to him during the transfer. Perhaps as a reminder that he has no control over the situation. A reminder that this is his fate.

"It's your duty as a soldier, after all," the woman says time and again. "Your duty to humanity. So stop struggling."

All of it is enough to make him sick, but he's too weak to even cough.

For now, he's been strapped down to a ledge in the back of the room. A low ledge, as if a rectangular shape in the wall had been crudely cut out and padded with metal. There are leather bands attached to this ledge, wrapping each of his arms tightly in place on either side of him. And on the floor, shackles binding his feet. The chains are too short for him to stretch, forcing him to keep his knees bent close. He can't even lean his head back comfortably. He's sore. Everything's sore.

He sits there with his head bowed low.

They're so afraid of his existence. So afraid they don't even realize how terrified he is as well. They just don't care.

_No more…_

"Really, with that?"

"It'll cut easier."

He looks up at the sound of approaching footsteps, looks into the faces of the man and woman in their lab coats and hospital masks. The woman lingers behind, matching Eren's gaze. And the man…

The man's holding an axe.

_Please, no more…_

"Keep as close to the shoulder as possible," the woman advises.

"Got it."

_No…_

He forces himself to move. Even if it does nothing, even if it hurts, he can't sit still. They can't. They can't do this. This is for humanity's sake? Or are they acting out some sick fantasy? Some mode of revenge?

_No more…_

The woman sighs, pushing forward. She grabs hold of his left wrist, pinning it down. "Quit moving your arms."

_No more…_

"Now you're in the way."

"There. Now just do it."

_No more…_

He tries to shove his other arm in the woman's face, tries to grip her silver hair as tightly as she does his arm, but the man stomps it down hard with his boot. And Eren tries to say something, anything, that could change their minds. Anything to make them realize how _wrong_ this all is. But his mouth feels like cotton, won't work properly. Still, he struggles.

The axe swings down.

It meets the metal ledge with a dull thwack. He lurches, sucks in a hoarse breath as the familiar sting spreads through his body. The same sensation—the liquid fire oozing from the remains; the prickle of skin as it hardened and softened, meshed shut; the waves of pain coursing through the rest of his body; the dizziness.

The woman pulls his now limp arm away, holding it by the hand as the other end drips blood onto the ground. She makes a face of disgust. "You cut too low."

The man pulls away as well, dragging the axe along the ledge. "Because you couldn't hold him still."

_Enough. No more._

"Mmn…"

"Eh?" His voice is low, but still heard. The woman kneels beside him. "What is it?"

It's hard trying to speak. The words just won't come, and the woman has a brief moment of pity on the boy. She leans her ear beside his mouth, voice soft. "I can't hear yo—"

And she won't be able to.

He lurches forward and he takes the biggest bite he can, locking the woman in place. He bites down hard, tasting blood and flesh between his teeth, on his tongue, and he just grinds down harder when she starts shrieking. She can't pull herself free and she's pushing against him, beating him with his severed arm, beating him with her own, begging for release that he just won't give. Eren lifts his remaining arm and digs his fingers into the back of her head, holding her there.

And the man drops the axe, tries to pull the woman away, but she just cries for him to stop.

_It'll tear._

"STOP!"

_It'll hurt._

"LET GO, LET ME GO!"

_**Bleed.**_

Forget pain. Forget reason. They want to treat him like a monster, so he acts like one.

"GET HIM OFF ME!"

The man can't. He's frantic now, calling for help, kicking Eren and trying to work his way around the blood pooling on the floor, trying to pry the boy's finger's loose. And he sees, soon enough, that none of it is any use. It's gone too far.

They have always gone too far.

And, shaking, he grabs the axe again.

_No more._

Eren closes his eyes as the man swings at his neck.


End file.
